Deep Art
by Shiny Pines
Summary: Everyone who was anyone in the art world new about the statue of the lovers.  Everyone knew the back story of two lovers shot in each others' arms. One day, the statue is vandalized, and half of it goes missing.  One day, Quatre woke up; alone. 3x4


**AN**: Let's get the warnings out of the way ahead of time, shall we? If you have particular worries about the content of the story that surpass the rating itself, read this. It may spoil things somewhat, so I recommend you only read it if you have certain things you want to avoid though.

This story will contain slash – 3x4 to be particular. Probably nothing explicit (which wouldn't be on the ffnet version anyways), but I'll warn you ahead of time if it does. It will probably also have het. However, with the exception of the main pairing, 'romance' is itself, not a major factor of the fic. There will definitely be violence, possible character death, though probably nothing too traumatic, vulgar language, homophobia and related discriminatory language. The views expressed by characters are *not* my own, and use of certain language should not be considered as me condoning it – it's awful.

Also, a warning for my possible slow updating times. Other warnings may be applied later in the fic.

That said, onward to chapter 1, and thank you for reading!

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"_The greatest art is born of either great joy, or great pain. Of the two, great pain is the more common."_

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Quatre kept his eyes closed as he pressed his nose more firmly into Trowa's collarbone, breathing in the sawdust and straw scent of his lover. His shoulder blades ached from holding position for so long, even if the pose was one as comfortable as sitting in Trowa's lap. His legs were slung around the other man's hips, ankles hooked around the back legs of the chair to keep him in place; one arm reached up around Trowa's shoulders to gather them more firmly together, while his other reached back towards Trowa's knee as if he were trying to drape himself completely across him and become part of him.

There was a thought. He grinned against the hidden spaces of Trowa's neck and squirmed, just a bit, betraying his feelings to Trowa. He tried very hard, only to think about the man he was currently wrapped around, and ignored the man working behind them. Still, he could feel the man's dark eyes raking over their twinned forms, heard a rustle and imagined it was the man scratching his chin through a heavy dark beard that may or may not have been washed recently, but would now likely have a gob of clay in it, even if the man had cleaned his hand first.

Trowa's fingers pressed into his shoulder blades when Quatre shifted. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but that will have to wait until later when we don't have an audience; later, when we can both be free. That's what his hands said, before a finger ran lightly up and down the back of Quatre's shirt once, and then settled down again at the side of his ribcage, relaxed but with an underlying tension.

He knew; Trowa hated being here.

Though Quatre was glad that they were outside the city (or, since Quatre insisted that some of his pocket money be used for provisions, as far outside of it as Quatre could get them using the remaining funds, which happened to be a village a half-day's train ride way), if he'd had any other choice, he would have rather not been forced into spending any time at this hovel that had been built and subsequently abandoned some ways outside the village. He wasn't as squeamish about dirt as many of the fools who attended his school and invited themselves to dinner parties at the gentlemens' club on his tab, and living for the past two months in run down inns and in spare beds owned by Trowa's acquaintances in the darker parts of town had gotten him used to a great deal. But that didn't mean he didn't prefer at least a basic level of hygiene from the places he frequented. Not to mention the dirty feeling he got sitting there in Trowa's arms for an audience, with the other man's gaze making his skin prickle. The dirt made his skin prickle too. There was little he could do about either.

The thick layer of dirt covering the floor, ground into the corners, and greasily smeared on the walls and single window of the hovel they were currently in was alone enough to make him want to stand in the center of the room with his hands held up to avoid touching anything. Luckily, though it was grimy and the smell still left much to be desired, it was obvious that the shack hadn't been used for anything other than the storage and usage of a wide variety of watercolors, charcoals, oil paints, and blocks of unused and half-molded clay for some time. There was no strong rotten food smell from left behind foodstuffs to suggest that anyone had actually _lived_ here for months, if not years – and Quatre and Trowa would not be the ones to break _that_ cycle. They had holed up in a slightly more reputable inn on the outskirts of the village using the remaining money they had pooled between them before running. That would let them save all of the money they'd been promised for this job and had been paid for in increments so far. All they needed was the last – and largest – payment to be given upon completion of work for the one remaining night they would need to stay in the area. If the hut had been further into the countryside than it was, though, they wouldn't have been able to stay in the inn and would probably have been forced to sleep in the building which hid their modelling from the sight of disapproving country-folk. That would have likely sent Quatre, at least, looking for another option – any option – free roof or no, payment or no payment.

Soon, however, they would be free, and with enough money to hopefully cross the Channel and enter France where they would be out of the way of his Father's men. All they had to do was play good little statues for a few more hours, and then they would be set and (almost) safe.

"Alright. Rest for a few minutes," a voice from across the room growled at them, followed the sound of water slopping over the side of a pail. Quatre fought the urge to frown at the abrupt tone of the artist and leaned back with a sigh, detaching himself from Trowa without turning around to look at the man behind him. Trowa wasn't looking at him though, instead staring with a frown over Quatre's shoulder at the man behind them. Trowa wanted to protest and suggest they keep going.

"Come on Trowa," Quatre said, swinging a leg over to stand up, and pulling at Trowa's hand to distract him. Trowa had been on edge all day long, and the bleed over was starting to give him a head ache. "We can have lunch and then finish up. My shoulder hurts." He shrugged the joint around for emphasis.

Trowa immediately reached for his left shoulder and began massaging it slightly. "Didn't the doctor say it was fully healed?"

"It will be fine, I'm sure – it's just that staying still for so long has caused my muscles to stiffen up." He raised an eyebrow at Trowa, delighting in the answering smirk.

Trowa allowed himself to be led over to the wall with a table and chair set up next to it. They'd hung their suit jackets off the back of the chair, and on a slightly less grimy part of the table Quatre had left the small bag of food he'd brought for their lunch. They ate their lunch – bread, smoked fish, and a pair of apples – standing up, and watched the artist move about refilling his pail of water, clearing parts of his work space, and examining the sculpture from all angles.

The sculptor was certainly a master; Quatre had to admit as he watched the man work through abbreviated glances, trying to not gain more of the man's attention than he already had while they modeled. The piece looked like it was nearly done, with only some of the detail work left to complete. Not their faces of course. Trowa and he had adamantly refused to allow anything that might identify them become part of the piece, and thankfully, the sculptor had easily conceded, saying that he didn't need to sculpt their faces to convey his vision with the piece. Luckily, too, since not including their faces significantly reduced the amount of time he needed active models.

Quatre was glad to be done with the job, though it was a pity they would finish too late tonight to be able to set out. He felt like he'd stayed here too long already. "So, tomorrow…" he murmured quietly, sending a glance at Trowa, who was busy watching the sculptor clean his tools of excess clay with a suspicious gaze.

Trowa turned to him, and brushed Quatre's shoulder. A stray brown hair – probably left there by Trowa during their time curled up together – floated to the ground. "Tomorrow we leave, and you'll soon be able to have a proper bath again, you dandy. I know how much you've been looking forward to it."

"Well, there is that," Quatre muttered, flushing slightly at how well Trowa knew his character; even his less flattering aspects. "But I was thinking more about what would happen after tomorrow I suppose. Do you have any plans? Any particular dreams? There are far too many things I want to do, and not enough time in a man's life, even if we will likely be pressed for time and money both." He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the sculptor standing partway behind him as his shoulders twitched again from the man's presence, but continued resolutely onwards, dropping the volume of his voice just a bit more. "I'm pretty sure I can convince Professeur Gaudet to give me a chair with the orchestra attached to his ballet. It's small, but we don't need much. It's probably better to live quietly anyways. Have you had any luck contacting your cousin Émile?"

"I haven't received news from him or Cathy yet, but that's as likely because we've been moving around too often as anything else. I'm sure once we arrive it will be easy enough to contact him. Whether he has a position available is another thing, but we'll manage," Trowa replied.

Quatre smiled and folded the cloth that had held their bread, placing it back inside the bag they'd carried their lunch in. "We will," he agreed. "But it will nice if we can get our affairs settled quickly. And no more - "

"Let's start," the sculptor grumbled, and the two of them heard the clatter of tools being dropped into position. "Need enough light to finish, and candlelight's worthless." They turned to see the man organizing his things and watching them with a sort of frustrated anxiousness displayed in his dark eyes and the deep creases of his lined skin.

Quatre sighed and focused his discontentment on the chair they were to sit in once again, and tried not to think about the man staring at them with dark eyes and recreating them in clay. Trowa quirked his shoulders at him and drew him back to the chair with a gentle hand at his waist, that Quatre used to distract himself from the partly pleasant (he did get to sit with Trowa), but more greatly unpleasant business of being watched that lay ahead.

Draping himself back over Trowa's strong body, he timed his breathing to the taller man's, and allowed himself to sink into a half trance like state where the only thing that existed in the world was the sound of their two bodies breathing in time. He imagined that with each timed exhale their spirits released from their bodies to mingle in the air between them, and with each inhale they drew a bit of each other back into their bodies. Not a ghostly possession from an angry or mournful spirit like those that were called at a séance, but a merging of their two consciousness, bringing them to a greater state of being. It felt almost religious, and he wasn't sure if he should murmur a silent prayer for forgiveness at the thought, or a prayer of thankfulness.

"God-damned sodomites!"

His prayer was shattered with two successive bursts of sound, the first of which sounded like the slamming of a door, and the second closely following the shout, which left a strange sort of burning numbness in his mid-back and a roaring in his ears. He coughed and raised his head to look up at Trowa who was staring down at him in shock.

"Sir, I thought – you can't just -"

"You just keep your mouth shut and do as you're told Williams – hold down that filthy clay-worker. No blood of mine will run around leaving the scandal of a pillow-biter to dirty our name, and if the devil has taken him, then I will have a nephew inherit before this filth."

Father – my father is here, Quatre realized and pulled away from Trowa with a grunt, unable to do more than stare at his lover. Warmth trickled down his chin. "Quatre," Trowa whispered hoarsely, and lifted a shaking hand between them. Their shirts were stuck together, dark with blood.

"Oh," Quatre mumbled, looking down at his shirt, noticing it for the first time. The roaring in his ears was growing louder, and he barely heard Trowa repeat his name. He didn't feel Trowa wrap his arms around him and struggle to stand the two of them up. He didn't hear his father's next words. It was as if the man didn't exist. The cabin didn't exist. Pain didn't exist. The world didn't exist. All the world was in Trowa's green, green eyes. Two more blasts of sound roared from behind them, and a grunt of pain escaped from Trowa.

Quatre fell forward, down into the green of Trowa's eyes and into a prayer.

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TBC…

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Reviews are loved and greatly appreciated.


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